


Battlefield

by Batsutousai



Series: Harry Potter Drabbles [9]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Aftermath, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-04-03
Updated: 2006-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-04 08:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/391687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsutousai/pseuds/Batsutousai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>2nd Person narrative of walking through the Final Battle when the Light lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battlefield

**Author's Note:**

> Hn. Read [Mortalus](http://www.fanfiction.net/u/9853/Mortalus%20)' latest chapter of [Harry Potter and the Simulacrum Seal](http://www.fanfiction.net/s/2794569/1/Harry_Potter_and_the_Simulacrum_Seal%20) (8) and this came from it. O.o  
> I seem to be in a rather gruesome mood of late, don't I?
> 
>  **Disclaim Her:** This story is based on characters and situations created and owned by JK Rowling, various publishers including but not limited to Bloomsbury Books, Scholastic Books and Raincoast Books, and Warner Bros., Inc. No money is being made and no copyright or trademark infringement is intended.

The first thing you see upon approaching is blood-stained grass. There are probably other bodies around you, but you don't really care about them – they're the nameless dead anyway.

His black robes hide the body fluids and since he's turned on his back you can't see his face. His back looks unharmed. No rips in those too-dark robes. If you didn't know any better, you might think he were sleeping. Except that his back isn't rising with steady breaths – but a quick glance could ignore that.

You use your foot to turn him over – better your boots get dirty than your hands. The boots can be thrown away if they get too nasty, but your hands can't and you've already lost your gloves. You'd have used magic, maybe, but you're too tired. Everyone's tired.

He stares, unblinkingly, up at the sky. If you stand directly over him, meet his eyes, he seems to be looking through you. Is he seeing your soul? Or does he see the sky beyond?

You ask him because you want to know, but he doesn't answer.

His skin is pale. Bloodless – it's all over the grass around him and in his robe. There's a streak on his face, near his forehead. Did it hurt before he died?

You ask him if he's in pain. You take his lack of response as a 'no'.

There's a large tear in the front of his robes – you see where the skin has parted beneath it, freeing blood and intestines. Fat puffs out on either side of the slash, padding the freed innards. 'Gruesome' comes to mind.

You realise his wand arm is at an odd angle. Closer inspection shows that it's severely broken – the bone is jutting through at the elbow. Perhaps not all the blood is from his stomach.

You turn away. The set of his mouth – firm and unafraid – scares you. You fear that you'll never be unafraid when facing death. You're afraid of what he has become, to where he may have or may not have gone. Did he become a ghost – to haunt his murderers for the rest of their unfortunate lives – or has he gone on – sure that his murderers will find hauntings that he needn't help along and knowing that he has people waiting for him?

As you walk away, you silently ask the dead what they feel. Are they in pain? Do they hate? Will they haunt you? Would they jump up and attack you, stab you in the back if they could?

No answer comes.

You walk on through a field of swaying blood.


End file.
